


Laundry, the Nemesis

by The_LupercalXVI



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Amusement, Bleach - Freeform, Clothes, Hint, Humor, Innocence, Innuendo, Innuendoes, Laundry, Pink - Freeform, Soap, Warhammer 30k - Freeform, boyfriend shirt, buns, mostly a shitpost, puns, shitpost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23542405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_LupercalXVI/pseuds/The_LupercalXVI
Relationships: Ezekyle Abaddon/Horus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Laundry, the Nemesis

The Great Crusade had been relatively slow the past few weeks. Which, for the mortals, was a welcome relief. For the astartes, however, it was living hell. They could be fighting orks, xenos, non-compliant bastards, new terrain, new atmospheres. And they all agreed that they  _ should _ be fighting literally anything but combat servitors.

Horus Lupercal usually shaved every day, but the lack of activity and constant work to keep his sons from killing each other made a chance to relax a rare commodity. His senior astartes assured him that he could take time to rest, but he politely refused, noting the fires in their spirits and their own desires to be actively fighting. Horus’s work with the Emperor had yielded no new areas in need of compliance and no new brothers to recruit. At 23 standard years, just five of those years actively leading the Legion alone, Horus found himself losing his own patience with the lack of activity.

But he was not designed to sit idle, even if there was nothing to fight. There were other, less violent things to do. The challenge was convincing his sons to see that. So between breaking up scuffles, Horus would sit and write out his plan to give them something to do. He silently hoped that every second would bring a call to action, but much of him believed the galaxy herself was testing his ability to keep his warrior brood in check.

So Horus kept planning, and eventually, after breaking up the fifth fight between Ezekyle Abaddon and Little Horus Aximand, he informed the astartes as a whole he would be retiring to his private chambers for a while. He could hear their silent protests and took it as a good sign. That his sons would miss his presence, even if there were just a few doors between them, meant he must be doing something right.

He made his way to his rooms, walking past the bookshelves and taking off the furs he wore over his tunic. Stains covered the tunic - sweat, mostly, some food and wine splotches here and there - and his pants were also 20 standard hours worn. Doing laundry seemed like a dreadful choice, but as he looked through his closet, the fact that he was a young adult in mentality hit hard. 

_ When did I do laundry last... _ he wondered, finding only outer furs to wear. Indeed, had a call for some form of official diplomatic meeting come, his options would be to borrow something from the Emperor - gold, naturally, and something he detested more each day - or see if he could stitch a few dozen furs together and look like a beast with twenty heads. The former would’ve made him, as Uncle Malcador said, “turn into a teenager,” and the latter would probably end all diplomatic endeavors before they started.

So Horus looked at his dirty laundry basket and sighed. All of his clothes, casual, formal, sleepwear, underwear, underarmor were thrown in lazily. At least he was keeping them off the floor and wasn’t shoving them under the bed.

_ I think I’m grateful Father isn’t trying to marry me off and instead sold me to the Wolves, _ he mused, grinning to himself as he gathered the laundry up in his large arms and headed to the nearest washing room. As he stripped down, dumped the clothes in there, added soap and water, he realized his error. About ten seconds too late, at that. An attempt to pull out boxers and instead finding them more water than cloth, Horus placed his head against the wall and cursed in about six different languages. While it wouldn’t be but two hours before all of his clothes were ready - thankfully a servitor would fold, hang, and press his clothes - he could not in good conscience wander around the  _ Vengeful Spirit _ naked. He could remain in his rooms that long, but going stir crazy was already happening just considering it. And he had his plan to enact, along with knowing his sons would not be content to remain peaceable for two hours. Horus had intended to go into his rooms, get a glass of wine, take ten minutes to relax, shave, and then change clothes. Now his options were to stay hidden and nude until his laundry finished, attempt the fur sewing game, or steal someone else’s clothes that were at least moderately comparable in size.

He immediately abandoned the first and second options. And the third didn’t seem possible, either. Then he remembered that his newly appointed First Captain was only a foot or so shorter than he was. Certainly not as thick, but perhaps if his son had a set of loose, well-worn garments he could wear, he could survive the next couple of hours without getting a draft in uncomfortable places. The biggest bonus was that because Abaddon was the First Captain, Horus could get to his rooms without having to leave the private sections of the ship.

Once he was certain he had everything steady in the washing room - the machines there were older and not always reliable - he made way to Abaddon’s room. It was interestingly clean, less furniture than one would expect of any captain, much less the one with the highest rank, and smelled of chemicals gangers from Cthonia would combine to get intoxicated.

_ I’m not really surprised that you can mix drugs. Or concerned. You probably had to learn that before you knew how to walk. What does concern me, Ezekyle, is what you’re doing with them after you make them. Are you a moody bastard because you crash between highs? Or is it because someone hasn’t paid you for your services...I’ll investigate later. You could use a lesson in subtlety, in the least. _

Horus noted the Cthonic gang etchings on the walls, territorial and victory marks. It was common enough practice among the Cthonic recruits. It bothered the Terran recruits. As long as it didn’t start direct fighting, Horus wasn’t going to demand the Cthonic men give up their heritage. He’d had to demand they quit tagging everything with cuts and marks to specify the mess hall and bathrooms as theirs. They could chop their private rooms up so long as no one was harmed. But thinking on private spaces reminded Horus that he was cold and needed clothes.

He didn’t have a vox bead on him, so he noted to go to Abaddon as soon as he had something to wear. Which started the rummaging through the closet space. Most of the clothes were Luna Wolf thematic, the glaring Eye of Terra on the more relaxed fit shirts. Horus was moderately amused at how most of the pants had completely useless chains on them, rips, cuts, and a plethora of fading problems. He also realized he’d never seen Abaddon wear anything other than his armor, a tunic and fatigues over a bodysuit, or boxers when provoked out of his room earlier than anticipated. So was his First Captain secretly fashionable? In a strangely, edgy, teenage fashion that most mortals would roll their eyes at, at that. More questions without answers, and cold buns giving Horus no time to figure it out. He grabbed the largest pair of jeans he could find - black, faded out on the ankles, knees, and various faded splotches on the thighs - and squeezed himself into them. There was plenty of room in the butt, but the front lacked comfort space. 

“Endowed in the back, not the front, it seems,” Horus muttered as he adjusted to be able to stand without wincing. As he grabbed a shirt and turned to the door, he blinked slowly to see his First Captain staring at him with red ears.

“...I have an explanation for this,” Horus stated, feeling his own face flush. Abaddon did not yell, to his credit, but his face showed that he’d walked in to hear the endowment commentary. Always good to find someone insulting your manhood while they stole your clothes, regardless of who it was.

“Sir, if you desired clothing, you only had to ask,” Abaddon stated. His teeth were clenched, but he wasn’t about to call Horus what he felt. Horus could see the fire in his eyes. It made him laugh lightly.

“Do you want the explanation, or would you rather compare me to various forms of Ork-splatter? You can speak freely in your own damned rooms, Ezekyle.”

“I have honor. For now,” Abaddon quipped. He crossed his arms. “But I am curious why you’re stealing my clothes, yes.”

“Yours specifically because you’re big,” Horus replied. The look on Abaddon’s face said more than words ever could.

“That seems contrary to what you were muttering when I walked in,” he snarled. Horus held up his hand instinctively, and Abaddon immediately went silent, his gaze to the floor.

“I suppose what I should’ve said is that you have a great ass, and are simply not overwrought in the front area of things. That doesn’t mean you lack a penis. That doesn’t even really mean that your penis is small. It just means that your assets are...your ass,” Horus said, voice finding the conversation more awkward as it progressed. Had it been Tarik Torgaddon, he knew that the next question would’ve been simple enough.  _ How big is your penis that you’re judging mine? _ he would’ve asked without a moment’s hesitation. It seemed that Abaddon had more tact, and as Horus pulled on his shirt, considered his explanation finished.

“And how overwrought are you in the front, then?” Abaddon grumbled. Horus coughed several times, unable to even look at the astartes in front of him.

“I’m not really sure this is a conversation we should be having,” Horus finally managed to sputter. But he knew that when manhood was on the line - literally in this case - most wouldn’t back down when officially challenged.

“You said I could speak freely in my own damned rooms,  _ sir. _ ”

“11 inches, damn,” Horus answered.

“Flaccid or erect?”

“Use your damned imagination!” Horus practically whined. Laundry had become the most offensive household chore in a span of ten minutes. All he’d wanted was to be prepared for combat and reheat his butt, not explain his anatomical proportions to his son. When his face met Abaddon’s again, the smirk faded from the First Captain’s lips and there was a brief moment of awkward staring. Then his cheeks reddened to match his ears, and Abaddon again broke the gaze.

“Please don’t tell me you have a vivid imagination,” Horus mumbled.

“Use yours, too,” was all that Abaddon said. And they stood there, neither one able to move without feeling more awkward, and neither one bold enough to try. It was several more moments before Horus spoke. 

“So I’m stealing your clothes because I put all of mine in the wash. I haven’t exactly been keeping up with my clothes,” Horus explained. 

“That makes sense - wait. Did you say all of yours in the wash?”

Horus blinked a few times before nodding. “Yes, because. They were all dirty?” 

“Primarch, sir, you can’t do that. How long have they been running?” Abaddon asked, voice almost panicked as he turned and quickly walked to the machines. A servitor stood at the machines, eyes glazed as usual, but face almost horrified as it stared through the glass. The water was no longer a clean, crisp, clear tone. Instead, the glass was coated in bright pink, streaky bubbles.

“Out of the way,” Abaddon growled, the servitor simply muttering ‘compliance’ and moving away. Abaddon stopped the cycle, instead putting it on rinse. He sighed and leaned on the wall, making no comment. Horus felt like fighting against an entire Ork army alone, unarmed, and wearing Abaddon’s weird pants was easier than doing laundry. His next petition to the men on mars was going to be a servitor that did laundry for him. His pride denied making the request through the Emperor. But laundry was officially the worst thing the galaxy could throw at Horus Lupercal, and he was going to do what any talented warrior would do to a dangerous projectile. Dodge.

“...so why were the bubbles pink?” Horus finally asked, watching the water rinse away all the suds.

“Am I still allowed to speak freely, sir?” Abaddon asked, not looking up.

“Yes, but be gentle, because this entire endeavor has already reminded me that I am rather incompetent.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Abaddon blurted. Horus sighed heavily. For Cthonia that probably passed as gentle. For his ego, it was a knife through the gut.

“You most likely washed something red, and from what I saw, that was in a load with a lot of whites. Probably some weird blacks, too, and I’d wager you used normal Throne damned soap instead of color-based powder or liquid.”

“Wait, they make liquid laundry soap?”

“What the hells did the Emperor - beloved by all of course - teach you!?”

“Gold, fighting, and diplomacy!” Horus shouted back, face pinker than the suds once were.

“Sir, with all due respect...I have nothing to say because I can’t think of anything remotely respectable to say,” Abaddon spat, turning to walk away.

“You cannot abandon me to this fate!” Horus shouted again, louder, voice oddly commanding. It worked. The astartes captain stopped, inhaled sharply, then laughed.

“If history ever gives me a chance, I will proudly declare that ork armies could not stop my primarch, nor weapons, nor any other shape or breed of creature, but doing his own laundry laid him low in just one cycle.”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Horus pleaded. Abaddon turned around, uncharacteristically pleasant looking. Full grin. Wider than the blush that had spread across his cheeks earlier.

“I won’t, I swear.”

Horus trembled. There was nothing but honest malice in that statement. Now, not only was laundry an offense to his pride, but oaths were intimidating. Ten minutes was all he needed to get his plans in order. And now, now the galaxy was falling apart at the seams.

When the timer beeped, Horus was grateful to be able to focus on something else other than Abaddon’s smug face. Unfortunately, as he began to pull out the clothes, he realized exactly why Abaddon had made such an affirmative oath of silence. Every white garment he’d owned was now some shade of pink. Some of it splotched, other pieces completely pink. It wasn’t white, or silver, or any of the hues he loved. Just, everything was pink.

Except for his one pair of plaid, red and black boxers. Which were still exactly as he’d thrown them in the accursed machine. The pair he’d almost removed earlier. The Throne damned pair of boxers that had ruined what little remained of his pride. Horus yelled out in rugged, ganglord Cthonic curses, and threw the boxers at Abaddon when he broke his silence only to cackle like a madman.

“I will never be able to hear you called a master strategist again without remembering this, father,” Abaddon chortled. 

“If you don’t fix this absolute affront to my honor, Ezekyle, and get my damned underwear off your weird sister of battle hair, I am going to honor challenge you - wearing your damned edgelord pants - in front of everyone and then promptly kick your fat ass so hard it fuses to the training cage bars!”

“The Cthonia is native to you after all!” Abaddon squeak-cackled, gently pushing past Horus and handing him his boxers. “Jesting aside, are you willing to learn or would you like to keep insulting me for the predicament you got yourself into, sir?”

Horus swallowed hard. Every ounce of him wanted to shove Abaddon’s face into a wall. But that would not turn his clothes white again. If anything, it would just add red splotches to the pink clothes. Red polka dots. No, while he did not often work against his pride, Horus knew his ego had to go away.

“Teach me, you bastard,” Horus finally snarled.

“We put them all back in the washer, first. Then we add bleach. Only bleach. Once the load is washing, I’ll show you the differences in the soap,” the First Captain explained. Horus shoved the clothes back into the hellspawn pit of pink despair and wrinkled his nose when Abaddon poured bleach into the load. Abaddon’s nose also seemed offended, and Horus was relatively grateful he wasn’t the only one insulted by this entire endeavor, if only briefly. He then watched Abaddon explain the various types of soap, and further demonstrate the easy ways to tell which would do which. Powder was just for ‘stinky clothes of similar shades.’ Liquid was used for preserving colors. Bleach was used for removing stains in whites. Abaddon then mentioned he was pretty certain other types of chemicals existed that could probably do all three things without fabric bleed, but he’d never seen it on the  _ Spirit _ , nor did he think it was really necessary if Horus kept the few non-white articles separate from the others. 

“Thank you, but you are still oath bound to keep all of this silent, Ezekyle.”

“Oh, of course, sir,” Abaddon said, that damned grin returning to his face. His right hand pointer finger gently tapped his vox bead, eyes fakely innocent, and Horus’s face went whiter than his clothes should have been after the first episode. He stalked into his room, slammed the door, and Abaddon simply walked out of the private section prouder than ever.

“And this is what I have to say about it all, brothers,” Abaddon started, oddly charming. Everyone in the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth companies were listening intently, the bulk of the Luna Wolves mimicking the same smug smirk Abaddon wore.

“I was there when Horus Lupercal lost to the washing machine.” 


End file.
